"No, I'll keep them; by Jove, I will! I must master these absurd
apprehensions. What does it matter? The communications certainly
relate to something which looks suspiciously like a mystery;
nevertheless, it's probable that, after all, they only refer to some
very commonplace affair."
Laughing sardonically, he paused for a moment to glance at the
photograph under the stronger light shed by the lamp upon the table;
then he opened the bureau and replaced them in a drawer.
"Bah! I'm a fool to think about them," he added, as he locked the flap
and turned away. "Yet, why should they constantly recur in my thoughts,
interfering with my happiness, and rendering me almost miserable? Even
Jack's semi-prophetic utterances seem to convey some meaning when they
are before me. Still, most people harbour a family skeleton in their
cupboard, and I suppose this is mine. But there's no reason why I
should bother my head over it; the solution will come some day, and
until then I can wait."
He flung himself into a roomy armchair in a less thoughtful mood. That
afternoon Valerie had driven to Bude to call upon the vicar's wife, whom
she had met on several occasions in London, and, although nearly seven
o'clock, she had not returned. The cold November wind howled dismally
in the chimney as Hugh sat by the fireside already dressed, and awaiting
dinner. For the first time since his marriage he found himself alone,
with time hanging heavily upon his hands, and had recognised how utterly
unbearable his life would be without her fair presence and kindly smile.
His love for her was unbounded; she was, indeed, his idol.
While in this contemplative mood, a servant entered and handed him a
letter on a salver. Taking it up, he glanced at the superscription. In
was in a feminine hand which he did not recognise. Breaking open the
envelope, he read and re-read the brief and almost incomprehensible
message it contained. It ran as follows:--
_Dear Mr. Trethowen,--It is imperative that I should see you as soon as
possible upon a matter of the utmost importance. To commit to paper the
object of the interview I desire would not be policy, nevertheless it is
of great moment to yourself. Can you make an appointment to meet me in
London? Please keep this letter a strict secret from any one, even
including Mrs. Trethowen.--Yours very truly, Dorothy Vivian_.
"I wonder what it can mean?" he reflected, with his eyes fixed upon the
paper. "Evidently Dolly has turned up again, yet it's strange Jack has
said nothing of her reappearance in his letters. Where can she have
been, and why does she send me such a curious request? What can she
know that concerns me?"
He re-read the letter silently, twisting his moustache in perplexity.
"I suspect that, if the truth were known, she's been on a holiday trip
with some admirer. But I shouldn't have thought it of her, she was so
quiet and steady-going. A matter of great moment to myself," he
repeated. "It sounds mysterious, certainly."
Still holding her letter in his hand, he flung back his head on the
cushion of his chair, and thought.
"After all, many men would feel flattered by such a note," he said
aloud.
"Why, Hugh, dear, how long have you been sitting here all alone? What's
that in your hand? A letter! In a girl's handwriting, too!"
The voice caused him to start from his chair and crush the letter
hurriedly into his pocket. Valerie had opened the door noiselessly and
crept up behind him mischievously, intending to startle him. She had
been looking over his shoulder for several moments, vainly endeavouring
to read the communication.
"You made me jump, darling," he said, laughing confusedly. "I've been
waiting for you an hour."
"And been amusing yourself, it seems, by receiving a letter during my
absence," she added cynically.
"I admit the letter came half an hour ago, but it contains nothing of
which I am ashamed."
"Then I presume I may read it?" she suggested.
"Unfortunately, no," he replied, remembering Dolly's injunctions as to
secrecy. "Its contents are of a strictly private nature."
"Unless it be compromising, I should scarcely have thought that any
letter received by a husband who wishes to preserve a wife's confidence
could contain secrets that she should not learn," Valerie remarked in a
tone of annoyance.
"That is true, dearest," he said earnestly, taking her hand. "It is
through no fault of my own that I am unable to show it to you."
"May I not know who the writer is?" she asked, standing erect, and
looking handsome in the dinner-gown which she had assumed before coming
in search of him.
Her husband shook his head gravely.
It was the first difference of opinion they had had since their
marriage, and he could not view it but with regret. He hastened to
assure her that she need have no fear that he was practising duplicity,
that he loved her too well. For her part, she had long ago gauged the
extent of his affection, and, truth to tell, had but little misgiving
when she discovered the open letter in his hand. Nevertheless, she was
curious to learn the identity of his lady correspondent, and, in
consequence of being met with a decisive refusal, was somewhat piqued.
This, however, passed quickly. The unbecoming frown which clouded her
brow soon gave way to an affectionate smile as she yielded herself to
his embrace and returned his kiss.
A moment later a servant entered and announced that dinner was served.
Then she linked her arm in his, and they strolled along to the
dining-room, laughing lightly, and discussing the merits of the obese
and highly respectable lady she had been visiting.
Valerie's nature was fantastic to a degree. She invariably sacrificed
her interests to her caprices.
Thus the unpleasant episode passed, and in half an hour was entirely
forgotten. Trethowen was as madly in love with his wife as on the first
day his eyes fell upon her, and, surrounded by comfort and luxury, led a
blissful, contented existence. Heedless of the future, and living only
for the present, he adored her passionately, believing that the perfect
felicity they now enjoyed would go on uninterruptedly and be of
permanent duration.
How strange it is that all of us, however philosophic, at one period or
other in our lives entertain a foolish conviction that we have found
perfect and lasting contentment! We never reflect. If we did, we
should recognise that there is no such thing as perpetual happiness,
that joy is at best but temporary pleasure, productive of bitter
reaction, and that so-called domestic bliss is a fallacy, always
anticipated, often feigned, yet, waning and fading with the honeymoon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On that day Dolly Vivian returned to Jack Egerton.
In the morning she had walked unexpectedly into his studio where he was
busy at work, and, laughing at his surprise and consternation, proceeded
to divest herself of her hat and jacket in apparently an unconcerned
manner, as though she had never been absent. To his questions as to the
cause of her disappearance and long silence she was perfectly
indifferent, merely remarking in a severe tone that she was mistress of
her own actions, and that she did not require intrusion upon affairs
which were of a purely private nature. A suggestion of his that she had
been on an escapade with a male escort she strongly resented; indeed,
she became so angry at the insinuation that, fearing lest she should
again absent herself, the artist was compelled to abandon his
cross-examination and welcome her return with all the sincerity of an
old friend.
"Then you won't tell me why you went away so suddenly and left no
address?" he asked again, when they had been in conversation some time,
and he had told her of his doings in her absence.
"No, Jack. Once for all, I refuse. My movements concern no one except
myself."
"I, too, am an interested party," he argued, smiling gallantly.
"Well, yes. I suppose you haven't yet finished `The Sultan's
Favourite'?"
"No; there it is," he replied, pointing to a canvas placed with its face
towards the wall. "I have not touched it since you left. It has been
awaiting your return before I could finish it."
"Am I to continue my sittings, then?" she asked coquettishly.
"Why, of course," he replied, lolling against his easel and regarding
her amusedly. "You know well enough what crude daubs my figures would
be if I did not have your model. I owe the greater part of my success
to you, and since your absence I've done absolutely nothing that has
satisfied me."
She was well aware that the words he spoke were the truth. Through
several years of desperate struggle against adversity she had been his
adviser and assistant, watching with gratification his steady progress.
Each picture he completed was more natural and more perfect. He could
work from no other model, she knew, therefore it did not surprise her
when he announced his intention to resume without further delay what
promised to be his masterpiece, "The Sultan's Favourite."
In half an hour she had exchanged her dress for the filmy garments and
velvet zouave of an Oriental beauty, and was lying half recumbent upon
the silken divan in a careless, graceful attitude. When she had assumed
exactly the same pose as before, with one naked foot dangling near the
ground and the stray embroidered slipper beside her, she told him to
commence.
During the morning the artist worked on in the best of spirits.
Delighted at the return of his companion and _confidante_, whom he had
despaired of seeing again, he chatted and laughed in a manner quite
unusual to him, for he always preserved a rather morose silence when he
had any difficult work in hand. One thing, however, was unaccountable,
and caused him considerable surprise. When he had been painting about
an hour he made a discovery. He was engaged in heightening the tone of
the neck, and, finding her head cast rather too much shadow, asked her
to turn a little more upon her side. She did so rather reluctantly, he
thought--and then he noticed upon her neck, half-hidden by the heavy
necklace of Turkish coins she wore, a long ugly scar.
"Why, Dolly!" he exclaimed in consternation, leaving his easel and
walking up to examine her more closely, "what's the matter with your
neck?"
"Nothing," she replied, somewhat embarrassed.
"But you've had a fearful wound. How did it occur?"
"It was a mere trifle. I--I fell down."
"Where?"
"In the street. I slipped and fell upon the kerb."
"A fall couldn't cause a cut like that," he exclaimed incredulously.
"It did. But don't bother about it," she replied, a trifle petulantly.
"It has healed now, and I have no pain."
He looked at her steadily, and felt convinced that she was concealing
the truth. Reassuming his former lightheartedness, however, he observed
that the accident was most unfortunate, and, expressing a hope that she
felt no evil effects from it, returned to his picture and continued to
put in the lighter flesh tints.
About two o'clock he suddenly remembered that he had made an appointment
to call upon a man at Holland Park with regard to a commission, and that
it would be imperative for him to leave her for at least an hour. She
raised no objection, therefore he changed his coat and took his
departure, promising to return with all possible haste, as he wanted to
finish the portion of the picture upon which he was engaged before the
light failed.
When he had gone she rose languidly from her couch, and, shivering
slightly, threw a wrap around her bare white shoulders, and seated
herself by the fire. Soon Mrs. O'Shea brought in her luncheon on a
tray, and she ate with relish, chatting to the housekeeper meanwhile.
After she had finished, and the old woman had retired, she rose and
wandered round the studio in search of any fresh studies the artist
might have made during her absence. She turned one which was hanging
with its face to the wall, and discovered it was a likeness of the woman
she hated--her rival, Valerie Dedieu. It was only a crayon drawing, but
the features were lifelike, and the cruel, cold smile played upon the
full red lips.
"I wonder," she said, aloud--"I wonder what secret tie there is between
Jack and that woman? There is something, I feel certain, and I'll not
rest until I solve the mystery. Yet--yet she is Hugh's wife--Hugh loves
her!" she added bitterly.
With a sigh she replaced the sketch in the position she had found it.
"Yes, my precious mademoiselle," she continued menacingly, "you may well
hide your face. Some day you will curse the chance which brought you
and Hugh together. You little suspect the revenge that I am waiting
for."
Pausing in thought, she ran her fingers through her dishevelled hair.
"And yet," she cried in dismay, as the sudden thought occurred to her,
"by unmasking you, Hugh would suffer, for he adores you! The discovery
of your villainy would break his heart. You are his wife--his wife--and
for me--for me he cares nothing!"
A tear trickled down her cheek, but it was only for an instant; she
brushed it away, and stood motionless for several minutes gazing
disconsolately into the fire. Then she noticed that Jack's secretaire
bookcase, which stood close beside her, was open. Feminine curiosity at
once asserted itself, and the thought crossed her mind that it was
possible she might discover some clue to the secret between the
Frenchwoman and the artist.
At once she proceeded to search, at the same time listening attentively
for any sign of the approach of Mrs. O'Shea. Prying among the papers in
the desk she could discover nothing which had any interest for her among
the bills, letters, theatre programmes and memoranda it contained.
Turning her attention to the small drawers above, her search was equally
fruitless. One drawer she opened, however, contained nothing but an old
newspaper folded small and lying along the bottom. A red mark upon it
attracted her, and she took it out and unfolded it, but with
disappointment she found herself unable to read it, as it was in French.
Half a column on the front page had been marked round boldly with a red
pencil, and was evidently some important report which had been carefully
preserved. The heading was set in great capitals, and the type was
larger than that in the body of the paper.
She glanced down the lines of print, but they were unintelligible to
her. The heading, which was the only sentence she could make out, was
"Le Mystere du Boulevard Haussmann," and the newspaper was the Paris
_Gaulois_. Truth to tell, it was the paper which Egerton had abstracted
from the bureau at Coombe when Dolly and he had visited Trethowen.
The "Sultan's Favourite" carefully scanned each line in an endeavour to
discover some word that was familiar, but found none. She knew it
contained details of some mystery or other, and that was sufficient
incentive for her to try and translate it. Soon, however, she found
that all her efforts were futile; so, refolding it, she was about to
replace it in its former position when she suddenly reflected that if
she copied out a portion of it she might get it translated by a
governess who lodged in the same house as herself, and with whom she was
on friendly terms.
Taking a seat at the desk, she spread out the paper before her, and
carefully copied several sentences, taking heed to place the accents
accurately, and scrupulously avoiding errors in orthography. Having
covered two sheets of notepaper, she replaced the newspaper in the
drawer, afterwards going into her dressing-room and putting her notes
into the pocket of her dress.
Once or twice she felt inclined to laugh at herself for attaching so
much importance to a mere newspaper report which seemed to contain
nothing to connect it with the persons in whom she was interested,
nevertheless she felt convinced that no clue was too small or
insignificant for her to investigate. One discovery, amazing yet
incomprehensible, she had already made, and it had whetted her desire to
know the whole truth in order that her revenge might be more complete.
Egerton returned shortly afterwards. Handing her a bag of burnt almonds
of a kind for which she had a particular weakness, he expressed a hope
that she had not been dull, and quickly prepared to resume his work.
With eyes sparkling like those of a spoiled child, she tasted the
almonds, and gave him one, then, flinging aside her wrap, lay again upon
the divan before him, laughing, and crunching her sweets.
The artist was in a mood even more joyful than before he went out, the
cause being that he had been given commission for a portrait that was at
once easy and lucrative, a fact which he triumphantly announced to his
model, and upon which she congratulated him.
In November the light in London grows yellow early, and before four
o'clock the artist had to lay down his palette for the day. Tea was
brought in a few minutes later, and the pair sat _tete-a-tete_ before
the blazing fire, Dolly listening to the painter's technical description
of the picture that he had been commissioned to execute.